


announcing your place (in the family of things)

by Spondylus



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: After the Heist, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eye Trauma, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Martin deserves better, THE HEALING, andrés is dead, but Nairobi lives, the tenderness, the yearning, various povs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:01:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25270543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spondylus/pseuds/Spondylus
Summary: Against all probabilities, they have escaped from the bank. Now, it is time for Palermo to manage another impossible feat: Escaping his past and the person he no longer wants to be. But growing takes time, and so does unlearning years of pain and coldness. Luckily, he doesn’t have to do it on his own.
Relationships: Helsinki | Mirko Dragic & Palermo | Martín Berrote, Helsinki | Mirko Dragic/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 65
Kudos: 89





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title is taken from Mary Oliver's poem "Wild Geese" (and I was _this_ close to naming the story Wild Geese).  
> Nairobi is alive and I take zero criticism for that fact.

His face was still throbbing where the glass had left its mark, and his left eye hurt from the harsh and bright morning light that just started to crawl its way up the horizon. But Martín didn’t care. Or rather, he did care, would have cared, if he would have allowed himself to think about the dark spots in his vision or the way his left periphery would not focus at all. Actually, he had to consciously steer his thoughts away from these facts. They were free, that was what mattered, and everything else could wait until after they were safe. Like thinking about this…moment he had had with Helsinki. Or better yet, with Mirko, Martín reminded himself as he tore his blurry gaze away from the rising sun and towards the man in question, who sat opposite from him, smiling softly at Nairobi beside him, head on his shoulder. The helicopter swerved to the left and the dawn wandered behind them, so that now Martín had a view of the dark horizon in front of them, yet untouched by the light. The throbbing in his eyes calmed down somewhat, and he looked at Hel- at Mirko once more. 

Their escape from the _Banco de España_ had been narrow. More than once, Martín had been sure that he would not come out alive, feeling closer to Andrés in these hopeless moments than he would ever admit. Andrés, who also had not seen the end of his own grand heist. When it had all gone to shit in the bank, Martín had thought about what Andrés might have thought about in his last moments, if he had died with a smile on his lips, glad to go out on his own terms, to die for a cause instead of wasting away in a far-off place. If he had maybe thought about Martín, the way Martín himself thought about Andrés now. 

But these bleak thoughts did not last, because soon enough, he had been too busy with the heist to think about such things, and after his brief dance with the devil and with death when he had tried to escape the bank with nothing but a suitcase of muffins, he had been in no mood to think about Andrés any longer. When he had set loose Gandía on the rest of the team, when he had tried to correct his mistake, when he had almost cost Helsinki his life, and Nairobi, and even this _puta_ Tokio. Martín liked to think that he was a heartless and ruthless piece of shit, if not from the start, then at least since Andrés had left him, but really, he had been forced to admit that he was not as cold as he liked to believe. 

Martín let his eyes wander over Helsinki’s face and the deep lines of exhaustion he found there, and next turned his head further left to look at Nairobi, and then even further to risk a glance at Bogotá next to her and then to Sergio who sat beside Martín himself. He could not see Raquel on Sergio’s other side without completely drawing attention to himself, but even so, no one seemed to notice his gaze. They all looked totally worn out, same as Martín felt. He could not hear the second helicopter over the roar of their own, but he guessed that the rest of their team was not far behind. How weird, he thought to himself as he finally leaned back and forced himself to turn his eyes from Helsinki to the dark horizon, how weird that he suddenly cared for this team, this group of misfits and thieves and robbers and criminals. To suddenly care for them when he had thought himself uncaring and alone in this world. He closed his eyes at this thought and started to drift asleep, still musing about what else he might have been wrong about.

When Martín awoke, the noise of the helicopter had just died down, and the sun shone harshly into his face. He blinked rapidly, found that his haze turned only slightly less hazy, and sat up straighter. Sergio was beckoning him to open the door on his side of the helicopter, and Martín complied and stepped down, legs stiff and neck hurting a little. Tokio and Denver had already left the second helicopter, the latter helping Estocolmo down, who looked a little green in the face. Martín took a few steps to make way for the team from his own helicopter and then turned to look at their surroundings. They had landed on an island, the cliff only a few meters away, roaring waves beneath clashing on rocks and a dark stone beach. When he squinted down, he thought he could make out a small pier and a boat bobbing up and down. 

“Good to feel the sun again”, a voice said beside him, and Martín turned to find Río standing there. He seemed like a nice enough boy, and for a moment Martín wondered how he had found himself in the first heist in the first place, and how he had been able to endure months of torture. But then again, Martín didn’t know Río, had only met him a few days ago, and well, for all his faults Sergio had a knack for choosing the right people for a job. 

Martín nodded. “But not quite like on that little island I heard you and Tokio had lived on before this whole mess, is it?” Río shrugged, and Martín turned away from the cliff again. Only a few steps away Sergio stood with Raquel, supervising the various bags and boxes of used equipment being loaded from the helicopters and onto several trucks.  
“Now what, Profesor?” Martín asked. Sergio nodded and turned from the trucks. He signaled the rest of the team to gather around. “Now, most of you know what follows. I have organized new contacts for the different continents, in case Inspectora Sierra dug a little deeper than we wanted. I will show you the numbers in a moment to memorize, but first, let’s go over the ground rules.”  
He stilled managed to look like a teacher in front of school children, even here, on some island in the middle of the ocean, Martín thought. Like they were on a school trip and he had to threaten them with detention to behave.

“For now, you will team up in pairs of two to get farther away from Spain. Stay together until you reach a major city, then, if you want to, you can split up again. Now, we have Denver and Estocolmo, of course, and Río and Tokio, then Nairobi and Helsinki, and finally Marsella, Bogotá and Palermo.”

He had barely finished when the shouting began.

“Profesor, Bogotá and me-“

“I’m not going with Tokio – “

“Río and I are not – “

“Actually, we had planned – “

Martín shook his head and met eyes with Marsella, who had also stayed silent and seemed somewhere between bored and amused. Sergio looked caught off guard, not used to being contradicted when it came to his plans. Martín didn’t even try to hide his satisfied smile.

“ _Silencio, por favor_! Let me get this straight; Río and Tokio don’t want to go together, while Nairobi and Bogotá do want to be paired up. So that would leave Helsinki without a partner…and…”  
Before he could formulate a new plan, Denver nudged his wife in a very obvious way, who spoke up. “Profesor, Río could come with us for the time being. He…hasn’t had a chance to meet Cincinnati, yet,” she explained somewhat lamely. Martín thought that Río looked pleased and relieved, and all of a sudden decided that maybe he had been wrong about his assessment of Denver, too.  
“All right, that would leave Tokio with –“ but again, Sergio was interrupted, this time, unexpectedly, by Marsella.

“I’ll go with Tokio. I wanted to go to South America, and I guess that’s your plan too, am I right?” He looked at Tokio, who shrugged with feigned indifference. No, Martín thought, he had not been wrong about his opinion of Tokio. Why Marsella would rather pair up with her than with – oh. _He_ had been paired up with Marsella, Martín realized and looked up at the man. So that was the way things stood. His old pal Marsella had maybe been less his friend and more Andrés’, and now that the man was gone, whatever friendship there had been between Marsella and Martín on Andrés’ account had died with him.

But, strangely, when Martín met Marsella’s eyes, the other man smirked and raised an eyebrow in a way Martín couldn’t begin to interpret. Understanding began to bloom when Sergio sighed loudly, as if the hardest part of this whole heist hadn’t been the struggle in the bank or his escape from the police or Raquel’s staged death but this conversation right then and there, and declared, pained: “I see. Marsella and Toyko go together, then, which leaves Palermo with Helsinki.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you scared of being hurt, or of hurting me?” he asked calmly. Palermo looked up again, maybe surprised about the blunt question.

“You’ll receive your money in two weeks but lie low after you get it. Don’t spend it all at once”, the Profesor continued. 

Mirko risked a glance at Martín, who refused to look at him and instead had his eyes fixed on Marsella, who in turn looked at the Profesor with a barely concealed smirk. Martín looked…Mirko cocked his head to the side as he tried to read the man. Martín frowned; his head also slightly inclined to one side, lips pursed, face pale. But then again, that could just be the fleeting adrenaline of the heist and the onsetting exhaustion that Mirko felt himself. Still, Martín did not seem to share the happiness Mirko had felt for a few seconds after the Profesor had announced that they would team up. 

Mirko felt Nairobi shift next to him and turned to look at her. She was frowning as well, but at Mirko, and raised her chin. Mirko smiled slightly, answering her unspoken question, and nudged her. She didn’t have to worry, he was alright, even if he was confused. He wasn’t sorry to be paired with Martín, even though he would miss his best friend. The last few years with Nairobi had been filled with happiness and joy, traveling through Argentina and feeling freer than he had in a long time. And he had healed, slowly, from the pain of losing Radko. Death had always hung above him and his cousin like a shadow, from fighting in the war to a life of crime, but of course, it had still been a shock to lose him. After all, there was a difference between being willing to take chances and really embracing the possibility of losing. But the last years had been kind to him, and he loved Nairobi for helping him overcome this ugly thing that felt like guilt, guilt for being alive and rich while his cousin’s dead body had to be left at the Royal Mint. But it had taken this heist and seeing Nairobi with Bogotá for Mirko to realize that while she had been happy these last few years, she had also longed for something he could not give her. To see her truly happy now was worth the sadness of having to part ways with her.

And, of course, having the time to spent time with Martín was also a good way to quiet his melancholy of leaving Nairobi. At least, he had thought that. But now, looking at Martín, who seemed to quickly become this stranger called Palermo again, Mirko wasn’t so sure.

He realized that he had not listened to the Profesor in quite some time and willed himself to look at the man, who now seemed to be talking about how to lie low. Good, so he hadn’t missed anything important, seeing as he had already heard this lesson after the first heist. Leave Europe, don’t contact old friends in Spain, no robberies, no other crimes. Model citizens from now on.

Afterward, when the Profesor had made them memorize the new contact numbers, he led them down a cliffside to a boat. Palermo had still not looked at him but had instead seemed to concentrate very hard on the stony path down to the pier, trying not to trip. So, his sight still seemed to trouble him, Mirko thought, briefly worried. Nairobi’s voice drifted down to him. She was ribbing the Profesor about some deal they had made that wasn’t necessary anymore, and he could guess what she had made him promise. Bogotá beside Mirko seemed in high spirits, and even though the rest of the gang was obviously happy to be out of the bank safely, they were mostly silent as they boarded the boat and dispersed. In another few hours they would arrive at a real port on some French island, splitting up and going their own ways. For a moment Mirko debated to take a nap and postpone what had to be done, but he had never been one to avoid an uncomfortable conversation, so instead, he looked for Palermo.

The rising sun was warm on his face, but the wind was cool and smelled pleasantly of the ocean, so Mirko had thought to find Palermo somewhere on deck. He was wrong. Instead, he spotted Palermo in the last place he had thought to look, below deck, but not in one of the cabins in order to catch a few hours of sleep, but in the small kitchen, lights turned off, sipping coffee.

“Here you are”, Mirko began and sat down at the other side of the table, watching Palermo take another sip. “Here I am”, he replied, his tone carefully neutral. So that’s how it would be.

“I thought we should talk about where we should go. Nairobi and I went to South America the last time, but I don’t think that would be wise, with Tokio and Marsella going there, and from what I know, Nairobi and Bogotá want to return as well.” 

Palermo shrugged. “I don’t mind.” Mirko nodded. He had had a feeling that Palermo had not wanted to return to Argentina, although he would not have been able to explain the hunch. 

“Do you have a preference?” Mirko asked when Palermo fell silent again. The man sighed, a deep sound that made Mirko’s chest ache. 

“I think it’s about time you decided, isn’t it?” Palermo mumbled and raised his cup again, his hands a bit unsteady. Mirko frowned and felt as if he had missed a part of their conversation. He took a deep breath and leaned forward.

“Martín”, he began, and the other man looked up sharply. “What we said in the bank. I did not intend to get you out alive only to leave you again. And I don’t think that that was your intention either. What is this about?”

Palermo smiled, but it was a bitter thing. “No, I didn’t plan that, either. But now that we actually _are_ leaving together, it’s…it’s rotten, Helsinki. I, I tried so hard not to feel anything for so long, I’m not sure that I can start again. At least not the way you would deserve. So maybe it is best for us to choose a city at random and split up as soon as possible. It’s for the best.”

Mirko took a close look at Palermo’s face, now white as a ghost, and suppressed another sigh. He knew that Palermo had a hard past, had heard enough of Nairobi’s late-night speculation to piece together the puzzle even if he had not seen the way Palermo had looked in the monastery's classroom whenever his gaze had drifted to the painting of Berlín. He had liked Berlín just fine, as much as one could like a man as arrogant and as unnecessary violent as that, but at this moment, he felt an uncharacteristic spark of anger and hatred towards him. 

“Are you scared of being hurt, or of hurting me?” he asked calmly. Palermo looked up again, maybe surprised about the blunt question. 

“I’m not sure I even can be hurt anymore”, he admitted. Mirko shook his head, but Palermo continued, “and I know for a fact that I have already hurt you once before. I don’t take pleasure in doing it again.” Unlike someone else, who evidently had had no problem causing Palermo pain again and again, Mirko added in his mind. Well, this wouldn’t do. 

“Yes, you have hurt me”, he agreed and saw Palermo cringe. “But you also apologized for it and that weighs a lot.” For a moment, he cursed himself and wished he could express himself better in Spanish. He wanted to get this right. 

“And the fact that you’re trying to warn me off also weighs a lot. You are a good man, Martín Berrote, and I’m sorry that you have forgotten that. So I’ll just have to remind you of that fact again, and again, and again. You are a good man, and you are worthy of good things and love and kindness, and I hate that you were made to feel that that’s not the case. So yes, we’ll choose a city at random, and we will take one day at a time to see where we’ll go from there. But I will not just leave you because you think that you are not enough. Because I don’t think you can see yourself very clearly right now, so I won’t take your word for it.”

Palermo, Martín, swallowed and took a shaky breath. When he looked up, his eyes were wet, but he smiled slightly. “I don’t see anything clearly right now, Helsinki, in case you forgot.” He gestured at his eyes.

Mirko leaned forward again and gently gathered Martín’s hands in his. “It’s Mirko, and I think we can fix that as well.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martín snorted. “I do hope that there are more advantages to living with me instead of with Tokio besides my cooking.”

The rain made a soft noise as it hit the window, a sound way to quiet for a weather that made Martín think of half-forgotten stories of Noah and his arc. It was not the best day for a new start. Today, they were moving into a new apartment and Martín tried very hard not to take this as a bad sign. He had learned that once you went looking for bad omens and allowed yourself to feel a quiet sense of foreboding, dread had a way of creeping into everything you did. And Martín had had enough of that for a long fucking time, thank you very much, and he tried very hard to have an optimistic outlook. So yes, it was raining a lot, but that just meant that the air would smell like wet grass and soft earth, and wasn’t that a treat?

He looked up when Helsinki brought in another box and opened the door to their would-be living room for him. “Almost finished”, Helsinki groaned, his beard wet, and Martín felt a little guilty for daydreaming while Helsinki – Mirko, Mirko, he had to remind himself again – was working.  
Martín nodded and came downstairs with him, careful to keep a hand above the handrail in case he slipped. It had been three weeks since the heist in the bank, but he still felt weirdly off-balance with his messed-up eyes in a way that confused him to no end. And he still couldn’t see out of the corner of his left eye. If he was being honest, and he was trying very hard to be these last few weeks, his left eye in general was in no good state. His right eye took time to warm up to sudden light differences, hurting if met with bright lights too quickly. Hurting, in general, more than they should, honestly. He was annoyed with himself for being angry about it, knowing that he was lucky to be able to see anything at all. And, of course, if his sight was the highest price they had to pay for the heist, he really could not complain. But well. He had had a perfect sight all his life up until then, had not even needed glasses, so he thought he was entitled to feeling a bit bitter about his situation.

Downstairs, he found that Mirko had been right. There were only three more boxes in the truck. They had decided against hiring movers and instead had loaded their new furniture and knick-knacks into a rental truck themselves. The fewer people knew exactly where they lived, the better, especially this soon after the heist. In a few months, they would not have to be so careful, but right now they had to manage the boxes between Martín’s poor sight and Mirko’s back that ached at heavy lifting. But even so, it was only three more boxes, having carried the furniture upstairs first. 

They had settled in a small town only thirty minutes outside of, ironically enough, Tokio. Martín thought that his team-mate could have hardly chosen a name _less_ appropriate for herself, finding the city a friendly and welcoming place. But Tokio was a big city with many people, of course, and Mirko and he had thought it best not to live right in the metropolis. Then again, a small village was also not ideal, as they were too noticeable as foreigners. So, small town it was. 

Martín was quick to steal two of the three remaining boxes out of Mirko’s reach and smirked at the snort he got in return. With a box under each arm – and they had to be Mirko’s books, judging by the weight, or else someone had smuggled whole bricks in there – he thought about the last three weeks with the other man. They had not had a serious talk since that day on the boat when they finally escaped from the heist and from Spain, and Martín thought that Mirko was just waiting for the perfect opportunity for a second conversation. Now, Martín may have decided to be more honest, but that didn’t mean that he enjoyed it. Mirko had tried to show his sentiment towards Martín, but he still has a hard time accepting it. He guessed that after years of living off the small scraps of affection from Andrés – a pat on the back here, a warm smile there – he was unused to anything more than holding hands. And they had done that frequently enough, so often, in fact, that Martín had felt caught between feeling like kindergarteners with a crush and wanting to blush at the gesture for its indication of pure, unadulterated fondness. The time after Andrés had left (and died, he had to remind himself, Andrés was dead and gone), had not been kind to Martín’s capacity for love. Or, rather, Martín himself had not been kind towards himself. Time had had nothing to do with it.

So, despite the fact that Mirko and Martín had already had sex when they had only known each other for a few weeks, they had settled on an apartment with a kitchen, a balcony, a study, a living room, two bathrooms – and _two_ bedrooms. Martín would have been lying if he’d say that he hadn’t been relieved when Mirko had suggested it. Of course, he had also been extremely uncertain if that meant that Mirko had realized that Martín was a lost cause, but also relieved, because, really…Martín wasn’t made for this kind of tenderness, or really any kind of it. Best to take things slowly, and if things would truly go well (optimistic thinking, my ass, Martín thought), they could still declare one bedroom the guest room. 

When Martín has disposed of the boxes, placing them in Mirko’s room, he went to the kitchen and started dinner. By the time Mirko had brought up the last box – houseplants – and had taken back the rental truck, dinner was ready.  
In the monastery, the whole gang had taken turns in cooking, although with very mixed success. Sergio and Raquel had always cooked together, being very thorough in following the recipes and making all sorts of soups and pasta dishes. Tokio had usually made mostly experimental sandwiches, ensuring that her meals were more often than not eyed with a great deal of suspicion. Denver had been a surprisingly good cook, having apparently learned a lot from his father, and he would often make enough to feed people ten times their number, leaving plenty of left-over salads and barbequed meats and vegetable (sparing them another day of Tokio’s meals, since Denver had kitchen duty the day before her). Mirko was an alright cook, often introducing them to dishes they didn’t know and guessed must be Serbian, and he made especially well-tasting stews. And Martín was a genius in the kitchen, something he was very aware and proud of. The first time he had cooked for the gang – stuffed portobellos with cottage cheese, an Orzo Salad, and garlic bread – he had been met with stunned looks and had been quite satisfied with himself. Of course, that feeling had gone as soon as Nairobi had compared his meal with one of Berlín’s. Maybe that had tipped her off and made her guess of Martín’s connection to Andrés. Their cooking styles had of course been very similar, having lived together for quite a few years. But one way or another, Martín liked to cook for the team, feeling more connected to them when serving them good food than at most other times. Not that he had known or understood how he had craved being accepted into the group.

To celebrate their moving in, Martín had now prepared smoked salmon with a rosemary-lemon sauce and asparagus and had bought a light rose wine. Mirko looked pleased to be presented with the meal. These last view weeks, they had stayed at a small hotel in the next town over and had mostly eaten at the little restaurant next to the hotel, and although the cooking had been fine, their menu had been roughly the size of a sticky note. 

“I doubt Tokio would have greeted me with something like this”, Mirko joked as he sat down and poured out the wine. Martín snorted. “I do hope that there are more advantages to living with me instead of with Tokio besides my cooking.” 

Mirko smiled. Martín liked that about him, he smiled quickly and earnestly, without any kind of the viciousness that Martín knew he himself was sometimes prone to. Martín used smiles as a mockery and to conceal his anger and hurt in a way he thought Mirko unable of. 

“I also doubt that Tokio is still with Marsella, so there is no need to compare”, he replied. 

“No, I bet she ditched him the first chance she got”, Martín agreed, “I’m surprised someone like her stayed with Río for as long as she did. They don’t seem particularly similar.” 

Mirko shook his head and replied between two bites: “You didn’t see them when we prepared for the first heist. Tokio can be fun, but during the second heist she was beside herself with worry for Río and lashed out at anything and anyone. She’s alright, really.”

Martín considered this as he ate himself. It was true, in preparation for the bank heist, Tokio had been troubled, and the bite in her jokes had often spoken of a bitterness and desperation he should have been able to recognize quicker. And in the heist itself, she had actually made some smart decisions, when Martín had been unable to do so himself. 

“Still”, he said, because it wasn’t in his nature to give in, not even to Mirko, “Río doesn’t seem her type and vice versa. I guess their relationship had something to do with living in such close quarters the first time around.” A second after this declaration he paled slightly at the thought that maybe, that was also the sole reason why Mirko had come to him during their time at the monastery. No other option around.

But if Mirko guessed what he thought, he did not say so. Instead, he just smiled again and shook his head fondly. “One way or another, I think they are better off without each other. Though I hope Río is still with Denver and Estocolmo, they are good for him. And he needs good things right now”, he ended and the mood turned slightly sad as they remembered why the second heist had been necessary in the first place. Martín cleared his throat, not one for a tense atmosphere he hadn't created himself.

“Yes, well, they already have a child, so Río fits right in. And why stop there? Denver seemed quite taken with Marsella’s ferret – what was her name again?”

“Sofia”, Mirko answered. “But I doubt Estocolmo would be so open to a ferret.”

“Well, then a dog maybe, or a cat. Or maybe a parrot – seems suitable for Denver. Very talkative, I heard, and I bet it could copy Denver’s laugh perfectly.” Martín took a sip from his glass and watched Marko finish his own meal. He seemed deep in thought.

“We had a dog, growing up”, he finally said. Martín nodded and guessed that some nostalgic story about him and Oslo would follow. He was wrong. “I hated that thing. A mean dog, if I’ve ever seen one. My father had made her very aggressive, feeding her at odd hours and always too little, held her in a too-small kennel. Bit everyone she came close to, except for him. Once, she took a huge chunk out of a little girl who playing too close to the front yard. And my father just laughed and said that that would teach the children in the neighborhood to bother us with their noise.” Martín watched the far-off expression on his face. “A mean dog”, Mirko summarized and roused himself, shrugging his shoulders. “Of course, it was not the dog’s fault. She could only react the way she was taught, and if all she knew were pain and hunger, well. But I didn’t like dogs that much after her.”

Martín did not know how to answer. ‘Pain and hunger’ ringed in his ears, and with a huge effort, he forced himself not to make the comparison to himself that seemed obvious to him. But Mirko was not like that, did not think like that, and that was another thing Martín liked about the other man. It was easier to steer his mind away from things like that when Mirko was around.

Still, he had to answer something. He thought about what Mirko would say.

His mind was blank. Right as he was ready to say something – maybe a follow-up question, ask what the dog’s name had been, what kind of a man Mirko’s father had been to his own son, or something equally depressing – Mirko looked at Martín again and seemed to be back in the present. 

“But cats are nice. Radko’s family had a cat, and she was a sweet thing.”

“Maybe we should get a cat”, was the first thing Martín’s brain latched onto, desperate for a lighter topic of conversation. 

Mirko smiled again. “You would spoil a cat rotten.” 

Martín shrugged, smirking. “So? It would get its own seat at the table and a little plate, and a little smoked salmon never hurt a cat. More wine?” he asked as he opened the bottle. 

“Let me”, Mirko offered and took the wine from him to pour them both another glass. Martín narrow his eyes and speculated whether Mirko thought his eyesight too bad to aim and hit the glasses. But Mirko looked quite content to care for Martín, so he let it slide. As he leaned back with his second glass of wine and listened to Mirko talk about emptying out the boxes tomorrow and finding good places for the houseplants, he himself felt a calm he had not known in a long, long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title ideas:  
> -The calm before the storm  
> -an unrealistically smooth moving day  
> -Martín and Mirko *chef's kiss*  
> -Martín probably wears an apron while cooking (because Andrés made him take care of his clothes)  
> -is Tokio's cooking bad on purpose? More news at eleven.  
> -Martín really has to work on his optimism, hm?


	4. Chapter 4

Martín had decided to set himself weekly goals. Because apparently, this was the kind of person he was now, trying to better himself or something equally as embarrassingly honest. He really was a catch, any man would be lucky to have him, Martín had thought dryly when he had brushed his teeth that Monday morning.  
So, the very first goal he set for himself was getting to know everything about Mirko, because Martín Berrote didn’t do easy. 

Predictably, this goal proved to be impossible.

Still, Martín was delighted by the little things he picked up at first.

On Monday, Martín was washing the dishes by hand. Old habits died hard and although he was an engineer, he couldn’t for the life of him figure out how to work their new dishwasher, _la concha de tu madre_ , was this supposes to wash dishes or fly to the moon?, and a mug managed to slip out of his fingers and collided with the edge of the sink on its way back into the water. When Martín inspected the damage, he found the rim chipped in a small place, separating it from its otherwise uniform brethren. So naturally, Mirko formed an immediate attachment to it. Martín did not even know how to start to explain it. A few days later, because he was a little shit, he had hidden the chipped mug all the way at the back of the shelf behind the other ones, only to watch Mirko move all the perfectly intact mugs onto the counter in order to get to the chipped one. 

On Tuesday, Martín witnessed Mirko take a highlighter from the living room table and go to town on a page in the book he was currently reading. Mirko probably only highlighted two lines, three at the most, but Martín was so stunned that he might as well have highlighted page after page in a mad frenzy.

"I want to find the quote again", Mirko explained when he noticed Martín’s expression at last. "It's a nice sentence." 

And it seemed that this was something Mirko frequently did, Martín found out when he flipped through some of Mirko’s book when he knew the other man to be asleep. And Mirko was right, the phrases he underlined and highlighted and marked with a little X on the side with whatever pen he could get his hands on really were nice. "If you can remember me, I will be with you always", one said, black against neon pink, and Martín had never been one for poetry and fiction, but damn. That made him feel something he decided not to look at too closely.

On Wednesday, Martín learned that Mirko was an avid birdwatcher. He didn't seem to know a single name in Spanish, and so, for the first five minutes after being made aware of the fact, Martín was convinced that Mirko taught him insults and swearwords in Serbian rather than how to say ‘crow’ and ‘swallow’.  
Martín himself was decidedly not born with ornithological talent. Even if his eyes would have done him the absolute pleasure of focusing on a tiny dot in full flight while being blinded by the sun, Martín had never been good at keeping still and be patient. Nevertheless, he asked Mirko to point out the different birds and blobs and describe them to him, and they had stayed glued to the window for almost two hours while Mirko had talked about ancient migration routes of magpies.  
From there, it was only a short leap to Serbian folktale about the birds. Apparently, his grandmother had told him to always greet a magpie politely and tip your hat to it, even if you were not wearing one, lest you wanted seven years of bad luck.

"But that was not a Serbian thing", he assured Martín, "my grandmother was just like that. She wasn’t satisfied unless she could outwit evil at least five times a day, so I think she made up a lot of bad omens and ways to cheat them. She was convinced that drinking milk after eating cucumbers would kill you." Mirko smiled fondly. 

"To be honest, they aren’t many situations where I would want to drink milk after having cucumbers in the first place. What kind of weird meal-drink combination do you have in Serbia?" Martín asked.

On Thursday, he discovered that, apparently, he had not been the only one observing and learning. They were buying groceries in the biggest store in town because it was the only one that sold the brand of rice crackers Martín had been obsessed with recently. They were thinking about what to eat for dinner, and Mirko was trying to argue in favor of pizza, except that what he was really doing was bullying Martín for liking pineapple when they rounded a corner and ren into someone. Mirko, being the height of grizzly, did not even stumble. But the other man had to catch himself on a shelf to avoid falling. He looked like the dictionary definition of a tourist, with a heavy rucksack and dark sunglasses that had come askew in their collision. He turned the unappealing color of a communist tomato as he stood up straight again, and his gaze flickered to where Martín and Mirko held hands. The man turned to his own companion, rolled his eyes, and declared in a loud voice in English: "God, the gays really are everywhere, even at the edge of the fucking world."

And Mirko had to be able to read Martín fairly well because he quite literary caught him in midair when he tried to leap at the guy. Not that Martín really had a plan besides introducing the man to a world of pain. But Mirko grabbed him around the waist and dragged him backward while Martín hissed and spit like an angry cat, trying to get to the tourist who had paled considerably at Martín’s violent outburst. Later, Martín could not exactly explain why he had reacted the way he did, having been called far worse things in his life, having been called _actual_ insults and instead of passive-aggressive unpleasantries like this. At this moment though, he was raging.  
And Martín seemed to start being able to read Mirko’s body language as well, because while he looked calm, Martín could see that he was fuming. 

"Don’t do it, Martín, we’ll get thrown out and banned for life from this place. And then where will we buy your rice crackers, hm?"

So instead, Martín demonstrated incredible patience and self-restraint and waited until after they had left the store to corner the tourist and teach him a lesson, while Mirko held back his friend and kept watch.

At breakfast on Friday, he was informed that it would have been Radko’s birthday today. Mirko seemed tired in Martín’s opinion, who observed him a little closer for a moment, like he hadn’t slept well, and the little wrinkles around his eyes seemed more pronounced. But he was eating with his usual appetite, so Martín wasn't too worried.

He mulled over the question of what to say about Radko’s birthday though. He ignored his first instinct, which was to change the topic and make Mirko laugh about something trivial, and instead, the pink highlighted quote from one of Mirko’s books popped into his head.

"What was Radko like?" Martín asked. 

They talked about Radko and the crazy things he had got up to in his youth until their coffee turned cold, at which point Martín brewed a new pot and asked about the villages they had grown up in.

By the time they decided to order lunch, not in the mood to start cooking, Mirko really was laughing, a welcome, relaxed sound. Martín didn’t think that it echoed with the past and with the pleasant feeling of remembering without pain, but he certainly felt it.

Martín announced on Saturday that he couldn’t stay cooped up in the apartment much longer, as if staying inside together hadn’t been a conscious decision. So, they took a train to the countryside, rented a car, rolled down the windows, and then just drove where the wind took them. They made a stop at a bridge Martín just _had_ to inspect from all sides, fascinated by the large arches and slender pillars, supported by buttresses that looked to be decorative but played the main part in balancing the heavy weight. It had been years since he had really _looked_ at bridges with an engineering interest since he had specialized in a different field, but he was suddenly excited to explain the difficulties and beauty of the bridge to Mirko.

They drove on for hours, finding small hidden valleys and a tiny lake nestled between sky-high pines. Once, the car had crawled its way up a small mountain, and Martín and Mirko had spent a very pleasant twenty minutes arguing if Martín had indeed been able to see a sliver of the sea on the horizon. Later, they had almost made it back to the town Martín started to think of as _theirs_ when he convinced Mirko to get takeaway sushi from an obvious tourist trap on the side of the road. They spent the rest of the evening eating in front of the TV, watching the Argentinian detective show Martín had grown a soft spot for, all the while whining about how the show had been ruined in the Spanish adaptation. 

At the end of the day, he didn’t have any new revelations about Mirko that could be formed into coherent thoughts, but still. He had managed to get to know the man better.

On Sunday, they genuinely tried to empty out the last of their moving boxes. They hadn’t had that many boxes in the first place, because in their line of work, it had always been better to be able to get away quickly without leaving too much behind. So, Mirko had used his money to travel, and Martín had moved places too often to really collect things. It was a little sad, but it made unpacking the boxes easier.

Martín found the last of the fancy spices he had bought and promptly forgotten about, and Mirko shrugged when they opened yet another box of books.

It was on that day that Martín learned something about himself, and about Mirko, and made the most important of his discoveries. He found that he quite liked making Mirko smile, and the way the plot of whatever he was reading reflected in his facial expressions. He liked how Mirko would walk around the apartment every morning after breakfast and check if the soil of any of their houseplants was dry enough to water them again. He liked how his books had to stand in a particular order that only seemed to make sense to Mirko, and he liked how he tried to show him how to use the dishwasher at least twice a day, and he liked how Mirko always seemed to run hot, and he liked, and he liked, and he liked. It was so easy to like the things Mirko did. It made Martín a little afraid, if he was being honest with himself, how familiar the man felt. 

He also liked how obvious it was that Mirko liked him as well.

So of course, it was on Monday when it all came crashing down on him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "If you can remember me, I will be with you always" is a quote from Isabel Allende's novel "Eva Luna".


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All thoughts were forgotten about not feeling deserving of Mirko’s kindness. Martín felt, in fact, like all and any thoughts were forgotten. Finally, his heart now threatening to burst out of his chest, Martín felt the doorknob and pushed inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think the "hurt" part of the "hurt/comfort" tag has been wholly satisfied. Let's remedy that now.

When Martín woke up, it was to a dark room and his own heaving chest. Sweat ran down his face and mingled with tears. Martín drew a deep, shuddering breath, his lungs feeling too small, and he could do nothing but lie on his back for a few moments and breathe loudly, heart pounding in his chest. He wondered that his wheezing lungs and the drums in his ribcage didn’t wake up Mirko in his room at the other end of the apartment.

But eventually, Martín felt that he could move again and was not gasping like a fish on land and sat up gingerly. His dream was already fading, but judging by the way his eyes stung and how he still felt the ghostly impression of lips on his lips, he guessed that he had dreamed of Gandía and the glass in the Bank, and of his last and disastrous conversation with Andrés.

A sharp breath left his lips, this time more frustrated then panicked. It had been such a good day with Mirko, finally unboxing the last of their stuff and starting to make sense of his own feelings, and his sub-consciousness had nothing better to do but send him back into the past, and to the man he desperately wanted to leave behind. 

When he thought of Andrés and this ghastly longing in his chest, he felt that we had wronged Mirko, that he desecrated this new and growing thing between them by still being held back by Andrés’ memory. And he couldn’t even say if it was the memory of this one, poisonous kiss between them, this chance of something more that had only lived for a few precious seconds, or if it was the longing for a friend who had died before his time. 

Martín swung his feet over the bed and stood up, having to steady himself on the wall for a moment before he made his way over to the chair where he had left his morning gown. If there was any chance of falling asleep again, it would not be without a few breaths of the fresh night air and maybe one of the cigarettes he tried to hide from Mirko. He opened his door quietly and made his way over to the living room, which was connected to both the balcony and Mirko’s bedroom. It was difficult to find his way in the dark and having woken up so suddenly and halfway out of his mind, the nighttime now seemed more oppressing than ever before. But Martín had the strange feeling that turning on a light would surely wake up Mirko, and he would be worried to find Martín awake at such a time. And with the remnants of his dream still in his mind, with the whisper of a never-forgotten kiss on his lips and this dawning guilt in his heart, Martín did not find that he quite deserved Mirko’s love tonight.

So instead, he let the walls lead him to the living room, where he slowly and quietly slid open the glass door and stepped out onto the balcony, back turned to the sleeping town in order to slide the door shut again.

But when Martín turned around to face the town and the silent street, his breath caught in his throat. For a few heartbeats, he couldn’t pinpoint what had stopped him, as the street lay undisturbed in front of him, all windows on the opposite side still black. Martín blinked, and when his eyes wandered higher, looking for the threat his sub-consciousness must have felt, he finally caught sight of the horizon. Now, his heart started to pound in earnest. Martín saw the sun rise gently on the far-off horizon, not yet so high as to really call it morning, but it was already well on its way up the sky, sure to wake up the early risers in a few minutes.

And Martín saw that the sun was rising, that it was not the dark night he had been sure to find himself in, but he felt like he saw it all through a veil, through dark sunglasses, a grey and blackish tint that obscured the sweet sunrise.

Martín stumbled back against the glass door, hands trying to find something to hold onto. 

Now he wondered if the apartment had really been dark, or if his eyes had betrayed him as they did now. White spots danced across his vision and he finally found the handle to slide open the door. He turned to escape the morning and stumbled again, this time because he had not noticed the raised doorframe. Martín hardly felt it as he fell and landed hard on his hands and now crawled farther away from the balcony. Had he been naïve, to think that his vision could not get worse, to curse his sight so early on, when, _he saw it clearly now_ , he thought with a bitter, half-crazed laugh, so early on when his sight had apparently been some kind of fine. Because this, this darkness, this was not fine.

Martín barely noticed his shaking hands as he hoisted himself up on the sofa and held his arms in front of him, trying to find Mirko’s door. All thoughts were forgotten about not feeling deserving of Mirko’s kindness. Martín felt, in fact, like all and any thoughts were forgotten. Finally, his heart now threatening to burst out of his chest, Martín felt the doorknob and pushed inside.  
_______________________________________________

Mirko had been dreaming about his father’s damned dog, but in his dream, she had been a docile thing, had gently approached him, and had looked at him with sad eyes until he had slowly stretched out his hand to pet her. Just before he could reach her though, he woke with a start.

Having spent what sometimes felt like a lifetime in the army, Mirko had always had a light sleep. Radko had once joked that this explained why Mirko was so ugly, that his light sleep interrupted his beauty sleep. His cousin may have joked, but the habit had saved Mirko’s neck more than once. 

Mirko woke up with a start, being asleep one second and awake the next, no transitioning phase between, and shot up in a sitting position. He knew what had woken him up almost instantly: Someone was outside his room, and it sounded like the person was scratching on his door. For another second, Mirko was dumbfounded, but in the next, the scratching stopped, and the door opened. 

In stumbled Martín. He looked ghastly in the morning light that slid through the crack of the curtains. His face was pale, his eyes red and bloodshot, his chest was heaving and his fingers shaking where his arms were stretched out, reminding Mirko of a zombie from old horror movies. 

“Mirko –“, Martín began, voice rough, but with the way he was breathing, he seemed not able to form any kind of sentence. 

“Mirko”, he repeated instead, took another step into the room.

Mirko finally reacted, swung his legs onto the floor and closed the gap between them with quick steps. “Martín”, he said, carefully taking him by his arms and guiding them to the sides of his body again, holding him gently but firmly.  
“Martín, what is it? What happened?” 

Martín took another shuddering breath, suddenly seeming calmer, and lowered his head until it lay on Mirko’s breast. 

“Mirko”, he said again, this time with a sort of finality that frightened Mirko more than anything else. “Mirko, I think we waited too long. And now we need a real specialist, and how can they keep silent? They are sure to know, to recognize where they're from and who I am, and then….and then….so, it’s either doing nothing or prison for life, or worse, like they did with Río, or….or….or like Andrés.”

Martín stopped his rambling and looked up at Mirko, now so close that Mirko saw that his eyes were not just the kind of red that came from crying for a long time. He thought of the Bank, of the scars on Martín’s face and what had caused them, and Martín’s words started to make sense at last. 

“Mirko. I’m afraid that I must hurt you again. I’ll have to leave, and I don’t think that I can come back.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You also said that we would fix this”, Martín finally spat, not looking at Mirko but turning towards his mug, pulling it closer with shaking hands.

Mirko had almost thought that Martín would turn around right then and there and would walk out of their apartment in nothing but his pajamas, morning coat, and slippers. 

But his declaration had seemed to sap all of Martín’s energy. He had leaned limply against Mirko, taking deep breaths, and had let himself be led into a chair in the kitchen easily enough. 

He didn’t look up when Mirko placed a cup of chamomile tea in front of him, but he leaned into Mirko’s touch when he stood beside him and squeezed his shoulder. Carefully, Mirko lowered himself and crouched on the floor next to Martín. His shoulders sagged, and the man was bent forward so much that they were the same height, Martín sitting on the chair, Mirko on the floor.

“Martín, is it your eyes?”, he asked gently. Martín nodded silently.

“They’re worse?” 

Martín pressed his lips together, grimaced slightly and seemed to struggle to find words. Mirko was intimately familiar with this expression on Martín’s face, even though the other man might have thought that he could hide it quite well. But Martín always looked this way when he tried to talk about his feelings, either not making sense of them or not finding the right way to translate them into words. 

So, Mirko shushed Martín quietly before he could even start. “Don’t worry about the details, now. But Martín, love, why do you think you have to run away, hm? Didn’t I tell you that I wouldn’t leave you behind, that I’d stay with you? That we’d take each day at a time?”

“You also said that we would fix this”, Martín finally spat, not looking at Mirko but turning towards his mug, pulling it closer with shaking hands.

“I did say that. So why don’t you trust me?” Mirko asked gently. He knew that Martín lashed out when he was hurt and tried hard not to take the accusation too much to heart.

Martín huffed. “This isn’t something that can be fixed just because you promise that it can! You already tried your best at the bank and look where it took us!” Martín immediately seemed to regret his words. He shrank back into his chair, leaning slightly back from Mirko and took a deep breath. He seemed to sense Mirko’s hurt expression more than seeing it and hung his head.

“Mirko, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that, it’s not fair, I know, I, I, I know that you tried your best, and I think out of all the people in there, you _were_ the best choice. I really am grateful.” He lifted a hand to rub his eyes but seemed to think better of it almost instantly. Now it was Mirko’s cue to sigh.

“Martín, take a deep breath now. I know that I can’t fix it myself, or just by saying that it’ll be fine. But we have all the money in the world. And you say that any doctor is sure to guess, but how could they? The details of the heist were never made public, don’t you remember that the Profesor said the police were too embarrassed? So how should any doctor draw a connection between you and the heist? Besides, people think these sorts of things happen far away, and they never even consider that we are real people who could be living right next to them. And even, in the unlikely case that they would guess, like I said, we have all the money in the world. They will not talk.”

Martín nodded slowly. Mirko raised his hand and rubbed his back gently. They both sighed at the same time, and Mirko started to smile despite himself, even if it was a sad smile. 

“You know that you can’t trust your first instinct sometimes, Martín. I don’t want to make light of your situation – but you’re always so quick to make a decision without really thinking about it.” 

“Are you telling me that I can’t plan properly?!” Martín actually sounded offended.

“No, your plans are fine. But your starting point is off sometimes. You reach the wrong conclusions, Martín. Your eyesight is worse and you think the only options are to leave them like that or to go to prison, and you plan accordingly. And I guess your plans would be fine if these really had been the only options on the table.”

Martín nodded again, eyes closed, and Mirko deemed it safe to stand up, knees and back hurting from the position. He patted Martín’s head again and then moved to find his laptop and the phone.

“What are you doing?” Martín asked and took a sip of the tea, now cool enough to drink.

“I’m going to call someone to get us in touch with the Profesor. He will know what exactly we should do now. … but I think you’re right, we should not have waited for so long”, Mirko said, not sure how a real apology would be received right now. “And in the meantime, I’m looking up ophthalmologists in the country.”

Martín hummed behind him. Mirko startled a little when he heard him snort quietly. 

“What?”

“I just imagined what state I’d be in right know if I had let Tokio anywhere near my eyes with her fucking tweezers.”  
_______________________________________________

Martín had calmed down enough to simply sit at the table and watch Mirko work. Some time into his second phone call, they had turned on the light, although by then, the sun had been well on its way on the horizon and must have bathed the kitchen in soft light. Martín had to admit that he could somewhat see now that the lamp was on, but still, the dark veil on his eyes persisted. Mirko had taken a closer look, and so close to his face Martín had been able to see how tense the man was. 

“They’re very red”, Mirko had concluded, “especially the right one.” 

Then he had held one eye closed like he had done at the Bank and had Martín tell him what he saw. Mirko had been right, of course: His left eye was the same as it had been, meaning a blurry mess and dark edges. But his right one, what he had already dubbed the good eye, made the world a darker place.

Now, Martín had made them breakfast – nothing like his usual variety, a complete opposite of the dinner they had enjoyed the previous night – and had just put out the left-over sweet rolls from yesterday’s breakfast and jam, and had made very strong coffee, although he didn’t feel like eating. He eyed the little house bar they had set up and the assortment of glass bottles still in the cardboard box underneath, but he knew that Mirko wouldn’t like it if he drank this early in the morning. 

The man in question was now on his third phone-call. Damn Sergio, Martín thought, for making it so complicated to get in touch with him. But Mirko smiled at that moment and nodded, hanging up.

“We can’t call the Profesor directly, but he will call us within the hour. Eat, Martín”, he said and gestured to their breakfast as he sat down at the table again and helped himself to the food. 

Sergio did call them, not fifteen minutes later, and Mirko stood up to take the call in another room. Martín caught his hand and shot him a look that must have been even sharper than he had aimed for because Mirko sat down again without a second thought and put Sergio on speaker.

“Hello Helsinki. What can I do for you?”

“Always so polite”, Martín grumbled.

“Ah, and hello Palermo. It’s nice to hear that you stuck together after all.”

“Hello Profesor”, Mirko began, “it’s Martín’s eyes, they’re worse. We need an ophthalmologist, the best one. We’re in Japan right now.”

Sergio hummed on the other end, undoubtedly already planning and thinking about solutions. “I had contracted different specialists for the heist, but I hadn’t accounted for an ophthalmologist”, he finally said. “I’ll contact the doctors again and ask them if they know anyone in the right field and in your area, although you should be prepared to travel if necessary. Not by plane, though, the pressure could affect the eyes”, he continued, now sounding like he was talking more to himself than to them. But then they heard a second voice from a distance, and Martín guessed that Raquel must be with him.

“That’s the question”, Sergio replied to her muffled comment. Then, loudly, he said to Mirko and Martín: “I’ll call you again in three hours with results. Martín, we’ll have the best people available, don’t worry.”

“Sure, why would I?” he muttered, but it lacked his usual bite. Mirko gave him a sad smile and thanked the Profesor before hanging up.

“You heard him: He’ll find a specialist. When has the Profesor ever let you down, hm?” Mirko asked. What must have sounded like an encouragement to him only made Martín sigh, something he had found himself doing quite a lot since waking up. 

When has the Profesor ever let him down, Martín repeated in his head. Andrés’ face popped up before in his mind as he remembered that he had dreamed of their kiss last night. Yes, when indeed?


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m not prone to optimism, no matter how hard I try”, Martín mumbled.
> 
> “I know. But that’s why you have me. I’ll be your optimism until you’ll be able to see it for yourself.”

It had been a tense day, and Mirko really couldn’t fault Martín for that. He had felt high-strung himself, even when the Profesor had called them back with good news. He had come through, of course, and had found them a specialist right in Tokio. Martín grumbled about this fact, he wanted to go somewhere farther away because he felt that it was too close to where they were living. They could be found too easily if anything went wrong, he argued. Mirko was glad not to travel so far.

The doctor turned out to be a young woman who Mirko thought to be fresh out of med school, tall and a little shy, but she was very thorough in her examination and took her time. Her face didn’t betray her once when she looked at Martín’s eyes, for which Mirko respected her, and she only told them her verdict when they had moved from the examining room to her office. Nighttime had fallen by then; they had met with her after she had closed her practice for the day, and Tokio was as quiet as a city that big would ever be.

“There is a piece of glass in the right eye”, she explained bluntly in English, “I estimate that it has been there for a few weeks, close to a month? Does that fit the time of your…accident?”

Martín nodded silently. His leg bounced up and down so quickly that Mirko got dizzy after a few moments looking at it.

“Since then, the glass must have been stuck in the corner of your eye, where it couldn’t do much damage, but now it has drifted into your eyeball and effectively lies on your lens. That has caused the damage your brain interprets as darkness.”

Martín stretched out his hand in Mirko’s direction, and he reached over and grabbed it tightly. Martín’s palm was sweaty and warm and shook in tandem with his bouncing leg.

“The eye is a complicated organ”, the doctor continued. “It’s sturdier than most people think, but once it is damaged, a lot of it cannot be repaired.” Mirko glanced at the other man, but he only nodded. Mirko was glad that the doctor was so blunt and didn’t try to sugarcoat it – he doubted Martín would have liked that very much. The woman glanced from Martín to Mirko and back again, and leaned forward.

“But I’m very good at my job, of course, and I think it would be best to also take a closer look at the left eye. There is definitely room for improvement there. I would prefer it if we could operate tonight or tomorrow, but since this circumstance is somewhat unique,” she gestured at the window and the nighttime behind it, “the earliest we can do it is in two days. I will have staff and any out-of-the-ordinary instruments I need by then.”

So, they were given a handful of instructions about what they should and shouldn’t do until the operation and were sent on their way. 

Time was slow in these two days, and Martín alternated between being uncharacteristically quiet and making horribly light of the situation, betraying his fear more plainly than when he fell silent. Mirko took it all in stride, comforting Martín with his presence and trying to make the situation as normal as usual. He knew that it didn’t work, but nevertheless, they took walks around the neighborhood with linked arms and cooked together, Martín calling out the instructions and Mirko following each one to the letter.

“Operations in the evening sure are a different kind of torture”, Martín grumbled in the afternoon on the dreaded and awaited day, brooding on the sofa. His mood had not improved by the doctor’s instruction not to eat anything twenty-four hours beforehand. “At least in the morning, I wouldn’t have to really wait, you know? I’d just wake up and go there. But now I have nothing else to do but sit here and…think.”

“I don’t think it would have been that different”, Mirko disagreed. “You wouldn’t have been able to fall asleep if it had been in the morning.”

Martín waved his hand. “You’re probably right. I hadn’t been able to sleep that much the night before the heist, either.”

“That, I know.” Mirko was very proud of the blush that spread on Martín’s face at that statement.

But a few hours later, Martín was pale again, and Mirko wasn’t surprised by his own white face when he caught sight of his reflection, adjusting the rearview mirror on the drive to the doctor. 

They didn’t have to wait long at the office, for which Mirko was glad. Their goodbye was short, they only clasped hands and looked at each other for a moment before Martín was led away. Mirko wasn’t allowed in the private operating room and had to sit outside in the empty waiting area. Being used to steady hands and a calm mind even in the tensest moments of a heist, Mirko didn’t know what to think of this new need to wring his hands and glance at the clock every few minutes. When finally the doctor came out, Mirko found that not even an hour had passed.

“You can see him in a few minutes. We had him on sedation instead of general anesthesia, so you can take him home shortly”, she began. “His eyes need to be completely covered for about a week, and he shouldn’t do any heavy lifting or let water directly into his eyes, so he should be careful when he showers.” Mirko nodded, having heard the instructions already two days prior. “Bring him back in a week so that we can evaluate his sight then. And call immediately if he is nauseous for a considerable time or if he starts coughing or sneezing frequently.”

“He will be okay?”, Mirko asked with a thick accent, being more used to listening to English then to speaking it.

The women considered him for a moment. “To be honest, it is too soon to tell. His left eye should be better, although his field of vision there is likely to be limited to what is right in front of him. I was able to retrieve the glass from the left eye. I’ve told you already that the eyes are more robust then you’d think. They can heal themselves quickly if given the chance, but the glass has been in there for a long time and his eyes were not left to deal with it in a very sanitary environment, were they?” she asked. Mirko cocked his head. He saw more understanding in her face then he would have liked. He wondered how much the Profesor had told her of their circumstances and if Martín had been right to worry about their safety after all.

But the doctor continued after a tense moment of silence: “So really, there is no way to tell how well he will see at this point. There is nothing more I can do right now, so we will have to wait and see.”

So, Mirko took Martín home, and the man slept most of the ride back, head against the cool window. He woke up only for a few minutes when they arrived at their apartment and was willing to take Mirko’s arm and let himself be led upstairs. It was weird not to be able to see Martín’s eyes and made it difficult to read his feelings. But considering the way his head hang limply, and how he leaned against Mirko’s side when he looked for the keys, the only feeling Martín must have been able to feel right then was tiredness.

The Profesor called around midnight when Martín was deeply asleep in his room.  
“How is he?”

“Fine, at the moment, I think. The operation went well, but the doctor couldn’t say if it had been a success, so we’ll be back in a week.” 

The Profesor hummed lightly. Mirko hesitated for a moment, then he asked: “Profesor, what exactly did you tell the doctor about Martín’s injury?”

It wasn’t the Profesor who answered but Lisboa. “That he had been in an accident and could not be treated directly afterward. Why, did she say something?”

“Not really, I just had the impression that she knew more then she let on. But she seems like a good person”, he hurried to add, because she had been. And Martín had liked her fairly well, and that was a rare enough occurrence for Mirko to take into account.

“I was told that she can be trusted”, the Profesor simply said. His voice made it clear that the discussion was over. Mirko frowned but nodded slowly. 

The Profesor cleared his throat. “I’ll call again in a week, then. By the way, did you receive your money?” 

“Yes.” Their share of the heist had come when they had still been at the hotel, even before they had found an apartment. It had arrived exactly two weeks after the heist, just as the Profesor had told them. For a moment Mirko wondered if the question had been calculated to remind him of the Profesor’s efficiency, then he shook his head. That sounded more like something Martín would accuse the Profesor of. He had long since guessed that there had been some sort of falling-out between the two men, and he had already thought so before knowing about Martín’s history with the Profesor’s brother. 

They said goodbye and Mirko was lost in thought for a moment before he stood up and stretched, back cracking loudly. The silence lasted only another moment before a hoarse shout nearly gave Mirko a heart attack.

He found Martín sitting straight up in his bed, grabbling at the bandage that covered his eyes. 

Mirko quickly turned on the light and was over at the bed in a second, stopping Martín by catching his hands. “Calm down, Martín, it’s all right, you’re all right. We’re in Japan, do you remember? We’re in our apartment”, he assured the other man, who was breathing quickly, sweat running down his hairline. His whole body was shaking with tension. 

After a moment, Mirko thought it safe to let go of Martín and instead moved to frame Martín’s face with his hands. “Are you back with me”, he murmured.

Martín nodded, still trembling slightly. “I’m sorry”, he whispered and had the audacity the look ashamed. 

“Bad dream?” Mirko asked. 

Martín kept nodding and grimaced. “But really, it was the waking up that did it”, he explained, “and I couldn’t see and had the bandage on…I guess I thought I was back at the bank.”

Yes, Mirko could see why Martín would think that. Martín made a frustrated sound that came from somewhere back in his throat and fell back into bed. “I hate this! Right when everything started to settle down!”

Touching him lightly on the arm, Mirko considered what to say to this. But before he could form a reply, the man seemed to calm down again and sat back up. “You see, I said it’s rotten. I tried to warn you.”

“Martín, come on”, Mirko said, somewhat lamely. It was frustrating arguing with Martín when he was like that. “In the bank, you had been ready to walk out and give up everything. Why?” he tried a different approach.

Martín grumbled, obviously displeased to either think about the moment or about his feelings. “Everything had gone to shit.” When Mirko didn’t say anything, he continued begrudgingly: “And Tokio had taken over my command. Nairobi was in bad shape. Andrés and I had perfected the plan for how many years? And look how long it took for everything to collapse.”

“Yes, it certainly looked that way”, Mirko agreed, thinking for a second about his own doubts and his fear of losing Nairobi. “But then, what happened?”

“Well, for one, you didn’t let me walk out the door and get myself shot”, Martín said. 

“Mh”, Mirko prompted. 

“And then everything went even worse when I set lose Gandía, so thank you for reminding me that it can always get worse”, Martín spit out, drawing up both legs.

“But it didn’t end there, did it?” Mirko said slowly.

Martín snorted. “Well, no, then Nairobi almost died yet again, never mind Gandía kidnapping Tokio.”

“Martín, try for me, will you?”

Martín sighed. After a moment he reached out, found Mirko's shoulder, and navigated to the side of the bed to side beside Mirko.

“All right. So, Gandía almost killed two of us.”

“But?”

“But he didn’t. We got them back.” Martín drew a deep breath, deep in concentration. “And then, we caught Gandía and made sure he survived. We used him to get Lisboa back. We…we melted the rest of the gold, together. And then, we walked right back out again.” He smiled a little. “The police didn’t have a clue we were gone, it was beautiful.”

“It was”, Mirko agreed and put an arm around Martín’s shoulder. “And now we’re in Japan, and the rest of the team is all over the world, living their lives and enjoying their money. And Río is free and probably still with Estocolmo and Denver. And look at Nairobi, finding love in this bank of all places. And it’s the same with us, isn’t it? Where would we be without the bank, hm?” Mirko’s heart fluttered at this thought. He wasn’t sure that Martín noticed what he had just let slip, but this wasn’t the time for confessions like that anyway.

Martín had his head turned in Mirko’s direction. “Martín, you see, when it looked like everything had turned to shit and you couldn’t see the next step in front of you, it still turned out okay, in the end. And I think it’s the same with this. Whatever will come next, it will be alright.”

“I’m not prone to optimism, no matter how hard I try”, Martín mumbled.

“I know. But that’s why you have me. I’ll be your optimism until you’ll be able to see it for yourself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking around so far!  
> I think it goes without saying, but I'm not a doctor or otherwise trained in any medical field, so if you've read this chapter and think the whole operation and explanation stuff is bogus, it's probably because it is. There's only so far research can take you next to studying it yourself.


	8. Chapter 8

“Optimism doesn’t mean thinking every situation will eventually end well”, Mirko had told him, “but that every situation has the possibility to do so.”

Martín tried his hardest to concentrate on these words as the doctor carefully removed the bandage from his head. These last few days in general, he had reminded himself of that whenever he spiraled, which was mostly by nighttime when he dreamed about the bank and forgot when and where he was as he woke up to darkness. But during the day, he usually felt calm. Mirko had taken to reading to him in the morning, and they had cooked together and listened to soft boleros and sweet malagueñas, and the days would have bled calmly and quietly into each other if it hadn’t been for the nights. 

But this wouldn’t matter anymore, Martín thought, and the doctor slowly removed the patches on his eyes with cold hands. In a few minutes, they would know what state his eyes were in. And he would be fine, he would be fine, _he would be fine_. 

At the very least, it was very possible that he would be able to see something again, he reminded himself as he the woman gently wiped something away from his eyelids.

“Keep them closed a bit longer”, she told him, and Martín reached out in Mirko’s direction, who obligingly slipped his hand into Martín’s.

“Now”, she said, and Martín felt that she had covered his right eye with another cloth. “Open your left eye.”

He didn’t dare to for a second, but when he did, he was greeted by soft light, purposely turn down in order to not overwhelm his senses. 

“What do you see?” the doctor asked. A blurry figure moved in front of him, and for a moment Martín feared that the operation had been for nothing, but then he blinked, and the figure took shape. He saw a tall woman, younger than he had thought, and cautiously turned to his left and recognized Mirko, who was watching him closely.

“It’s better than before”, he answered her, voice rough, and smiled. “My left side is still very dark, but it’s not as blurry, and there are no dark spots dancing across my vision.”

“Very well, that sounds about right. But be warned, your left periphery is unlikely to be as well as it was before. Don’t worry if your sight gets a bit blurry again in the next few days, it should clear up in a couple of minutes. I’ll cover the eye again, now, and we’ll have a look at the right one.”

She did as she said, and Mirko squeezed Martín’s hand for a moment before he opened his right eye and blinked rapidly.

Tears sprang into his eyes. He reached up with a shaky hand to wipe them away.   
“Yes”, he said, sounding choked even to his own ears, “it’s very clear.”

Martín was no man of poetry. That had always been Andrés’ department, but he only thought of the other man for a second before he turned his head to Mirko. He felt like he would be able to write sonnets and ballads about the way the light reflected in Mirko’s face.

“Very clear”, he repeated in Spanish and smiled at Mirko. 

“Good”, the doctor said, and removed the cover from his left eye. With both eyes, his sight was still a little cloudy, and there was a dark spot at the bottom of his vision that seemed to originate from his right eye, but still. He had been troubled over nothing. 

The further examination seemed very short to Martín, answering some questions about his sight and letting the doctor make a short test with a flashlight that hurt his eyes, but all in all, when he stepped out of the office, he felt so bold that he slipped his hand into Mirko’s bigger one.

“Thank you”, he said, hoping that Mirko felt the weight of his gratitude. “For sticking with me, even when I was being difficult.”

Mirko shrugged, looking pleased. “I like a challenge”, he replied easily and Martín laughed. “I think I’m the right man if that’s the case.”

It was darker yet when they were finally home, and after spending most of the day worried about his eyes, Martín was very tired. Mirko gave him a pat on the back, looking like he wanted to do more than that – and what a joy to finally be able to read Mirko’s expression again! – and bid him goodnight, disappearing into his own room. 

Martín felt a little childish when he turned on the light in the hallway and left his door open a crack so that he could see a sliver of light when he lay in bed, but he didn’t want to wake up again in darkness.

Somewhere between the loud thoughts of being awake and the gentle embrace of sleep, Martín remembered a night at the monastery. Night had fallen in his memory, and with the monks fast asleep, most of the team had sneaked outside into the cloistered courtyard and had pulled out the lawn chairs. 

Martín had been wine drunk that evening, like the rest of them, and there had been a lull in the hushed conversation where they just sat and looked up at the stars. The night had been warm, a gentle breeze rustled the leaves, and the smell of saltwater and the sea had been unusually heavy in the air.

“Tell me about Río”, someone had slurred, and it had taken Martín a moment to realize that he himself had said that.

Nairobi had leaned forward in her chair next to him. “What do you want to know?”

“You know. Just want to get a general sense of him. I mean, I don’t even know the kid and I’m risking my neck for him.”

Tokio had snorted loudly on Nairobi’s other side. “I thought you’re risking your neck for the grand old plan and a filthy amount of gold?”

“Yeah, so? I can multitask.”

The team around him had chuckled at that, Denver the loudest with his trademark laugh and Helsinki a low rumble next to him, and Martín had felt an unexpected rush of fondness for these people. 

Had he learned anything about Río that night? In the place between wakefulness and sleep, he couldn’t remember. There, they just stayed in the lawn chairs, looking up at the stars, content in each other’s company. It was the last thing he saw with a certain clarity before drifting off to a dreamless sleep.

When Martín woke up, the light in the hallway was still on and he could hear birds singing outside his window. Although he couldn’t remember what he had thought about last night, he felt strangely grounded, as if the earth had shifted underneath his feet and a heavy cover had been lifted from his eyes that had nothing to do with his surgery.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "[...] Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,  
> the world offers itself to your imagination,  
> calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting -  
> over and over announcing your place  
> in the family of things."
> 
> -Wild Geese by Mary Oliver

As usual, Mirko was up before Martín. It really wasn’t a surprise today, since Martín had seemed pretty wiped out after yesterday’s visit to the doctor. Mirko had just started to make another round of omelets when he heard the shower being turned off in Martín’s bathroom next door.

By the time he emerged from his room, dressed in a light shirt and dark jeans, breakfast was ready. Mirko watched the other man from above the rim of his latest book. He looked well-rested in a way that he hadn’t in the last few weeks.

“Good morning”, Martín said, taking the small detour around the table instead of going straight to his seat to come up behind Mirko and squeeze his shoulder. 

“Hello”, Mirko replied surprised but decided not to comment. “You slept well?”

“Like a baby”, Martín said with a smile. “You?”

Mirko nodded and kept watching Martín, his pretense of reading quite forgotten. Martín poured himself a glass of milk and sat down to eat his omelet. “Well, now that I don’t have to mind the doctor’s orders to keep any bandage dry, what do we want to do today?”

“Whatever you want to do I’m fine with, Martín”, he replied. Martín took a large gulp of his milk and shook his head. It was good to fully see his face again, Mirko thought. He had missed the way Martín’s eyes would light up when he had planned something.

“No, no, today, we do something you want to do, not something you’re only fine with. The last few days have already been about me.” Martín waved his hand dismissively. Mirko leaned back in his chair and considered this. He didn’t want to strain Martín, and the doctor _had_ said something about taking it slow, but he also knew that voicing his concern would not be welcomed.

“Well, what made you want to come to Japan in the first place?” Martín interrupted Mirko’s train of thought, mistaking his silence for not being sure what he wanted to do.

“Didn’t we literally throw a dart to decide where to go?” Mirko asked and smiled at the memory. Martín had almost impaled the Profesor with the dart. “Maybe we should get to know Japan better”, he finally said. “I wanted to take a language course, there must be some good ones online…”

“Nooo, come on, where’s the fun in that? There must be some kind of real class we can take”, Martín whined, and Mirko had to smile again, seeing as Martín had automatically included himself in Mirko’s plans. 

“Even so, the Profesor said to lie low if we can”, he reminded Martín. 

“I think he was talking about robbing jewelry stores and buying jet skis, not that we had to live in total seclusion.” 

“I don’t think I’ve seen you even sit still for more than five minutes”, Mirko replied, “You’re not made to live in total seclusion one way or another.”

“Depends on the company.” To Mirko’s delight, Martín blushed. “We can look into this language thing, but I doubt we’ll find anything that starts today,” he quickly changed the subject, still a little red in the face. “If meeting other people is on the table, I think I have another idea to get to know the country.”

Thus, after a quick research online, they drove up to the city and parked, and then made their way by foot into a street vibrant with activity. The small restaurant they had found online was easy enough to find, and Martín managed to secure two spots at the all-day cooking class with a few well-spoken words and a bright smile, although it had initially been full.

So, next to tourists and fellow new-comers, Martín and Mirko lost themselves in first learning to make some of the popular street food, preparing savory pancakes and little octopus-balls. Mirko had been especially delighted when he had to use a blow torch for the finishing touches to a meal containing broiled tuna. In the afternoon, they moved on to rice omelets and chicken curry and were introduced to different sweet dishes. They spent almost an hour in a supermarket afterward, stocking up on Japanese pantry ingredients. Mirko insisted on carrying their haul back to their car, heavy bags hanging from both of his arms, as Martín thought out loud what they should cook tomorrow. 

Their outing had been a full success, Mirko thought on their drive back, but he was glad that Martín had not insisted on doing anything more strenuous than standing in a kitchen for a few hours. The man in question had closed his eyes a few minutes into their ride back, and Mirko guessed that the day had been a strain on his still-healing eyes. It had just started to rain, and Mirko looked forward to a cozy evening.

They turned into their road. Suddenly, Martín sat up straight and looked out of his window with a heavy frown.

“What is it?” Mirko asked and started to slow down, but Martín reached out and grabbed his arm. “No, keep driving.”

“Martín, what is it?”

“I’m not sure, maybe nothing. Something just feels…off.”

Mirko drove on and passed their house, and they took a right and drove two streets further to park. 

Martín frowned again and turned his head to look up at the rooftops around them. “You know, maybe I am a bit paranoid after all”, he said with a sheepish smile. “Let’s leave the car here and get the groceries upstairs, maybe the walk back will clear my head.”

They left the car and went around it in the little drizzle and popped open the trunk door. 

“Should I help you with that?” Martín asked and tried to lean around Mirko to get one of their shopping bags.

“No, I can-“

“Stop!” a voice hissed behind them.

They whirled around, Mirko already grabbing the pry bar they kept in the trunk in case they ren into car trouble.

When he turned around, he found himself face to face with the doctor who had treated Martín.

“Please, they know!” she hissed and stepped closer to stand under the opened trunk car, hair drenched from the rain. “I had a hunch who you are, but I thought I was the only one who knew! And then one of the nurses who helped in the operation told me this morning that she had read up on the heist in Spain and had just called the police!”

Mirko lowered the pry bar. “They know?”

“Yes! I tried to reach you all day, but your phone is off! So, I called the number who had contacted me about your case – someone called Salvatore? – and he told me where to go to warn you. There’re people in your apartment and on your street, waiting for you. You have to leave, now!”

Mirko turned to look at Martín. He stared at the doctor for another moment, then seemed to shake out of his surprised stupor. “Right, what are we waiting for? Doctor, do you have a phone?”

She nodded and handed it over.

“Did, ehm, Salvatore tell you anything else? Any message for us?”

She shook her head, and Martín nodded to himself before turning to Mirko.

“We’ll call the Profesor on the way, let’s just get out of town for now. Thank you”, he said to the woman, who gave them a tight smile and backed away again, running in the opposite direction.

“Martín”, Mirko started, as Martín closed the trunk door. “What if they build roadblocks? Maybe one of us should create a diversion so that the other one –“

“No! It’s either both of us or none of us! Mirko, you get in this car right now or God help me!” Martín hissed, turned around, and settled into the passenger seat. 

Mirko followed him and sat down, pulled out of the parking space again, and slowly drove down the road, away from their apartment. There was a moment of silence. Then the doctor’s phone rang, and Martín quickly put it on speaker. It was the Profesor.

“I’m glad to see that she reached you in time”, he began. “Now, Helsinki, take a left turn and then a right. There’s a small access road out of town the trucks use that you’re going to take.”

“How’d they know where we live?” Martín asked, glancing behind them. 

“The same way I found you: They used security cameras to track your car on the way from the doctor’s to your apartment. That means you will have to ditch the car later on, but I’ll tell you when we get there. Left again, Helsinki!”

Mirko turned so quickly that Martín was almost thrown against the door. 

“Now, keep driving slowly, you don’t want to attract any attention. They haven’t built any roadblocks yet, so I don’t think they’re taking the nurse quite seriously.”

They drove in silence, only interrupted by the Profesor’s orders. Mirko exhaled slowly when they finally left the town and glanced at Martín, who looked calm. They had always operated well in tense situations, and Mikro didn't find it difficult to get into the sober state of mind that was required for a job. They kept driving for twenty minutes and then changed cars with a contact of the Profesor’s. Twice more they did this, until night started to fall, and reached the countryside they had spent that pleasant day exploring two weeks and a million years ago.

“Battery’s getting low”, Martín warned with a look at the phone.

“I think you’ve driven far enough for now, anyway”, the Profesor said. “Sleep a little, buy a burner phone tomorrow, and call the contact number for East Asia I gave you after the heist.”

Martín saluted half-heartedly, though the Profesor couldn’t see it of course, and hung up. 

They drove on until they had reached the edge of a forest, where they turned left into a little country road and parked on the side of the street, under the trees.

The silence seemed heavier, now that the engine wasn’t running anymore, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Mirko felt like the whole world lay open before them. 

“It’s a shame about the books and the plants”, he finally said.

“Sure is”, Martín agreed. “And about your little chipped cup, too. But I’ll break another one for you if you want to.” He held out a hand almost hesitantly, and Mirko took it, smiling despite their situation. Martín gave his hand a light squeeze. “And besides. I have everything I need right here.” Mirko turned his head to fully look at Martín, the dark road and forest quite forgotten. 

“We’ll find another place to stay. It was just bad luck that that nurse guessed who we are”, Martín continued with a sigh. “Next time we decide on a place, you throw the dart, alright?” He smiled as well, never letting go of Mirko’s hand. They seemed closer today than in the last few weeks, and something about the word ‘we’ and the pure lack of cynicism and gloom that seemed to surround Martín most of the time made Mirko’s heart swell.

This was neither the boom nor the ciao Martín had preached months before; this was tenderness and something Mirko knew Martín was not ready to call love, even if it was love in all but in name.

“I’m just happy to be where you are”, Mirko said quietly. Martín turned his head and looked at him, then to where their hands where interlocked between them, and then back up at Mirko.

“As am I”, Martín said.

And with this, he turned completely towards Mirko, raised a hand to caress his cheek, and, as Mirko felt himself nod, leaned forward for the kiss that had lingered between them since they had left the bank hand in hand.


	10. Epilogue

„I‘ll kill her!“ Martín roared from the other end of the house.

Mirko scratched the future victim’s chin. “Don’t you worry, I’m sure he won’t”, he assured the cat, who didn’t look particularly worried in the first place, and instead purred a notch louder where she lay on Mirko’s belly.

“Where is she?!” Martín had reached the living room, and, finding Nizza easily enough, pointed at her. “You!”

“What’s she done now?” Mirko asked, amused, and continued to pet her head.

“She’s a thief and a killer! Look!” He held up a pair of slippers, one of which was completely chewed up. “A killer!”

“Are you a mighty predator, Nizza, hm? The slipper didn’t stand a chance against you”, Mirko said.

Martín let himself fall dramatically on the couch next to Mirko and dangled the mauled shoe in front of the cat. “Don’t you have anything to say for yourself? Look at it! Don’t you have any mercy?”

The cat looked untroubled at the shoe, then turned her head and stretched out a paw to reach Martín’s hand. The man sighed and obligingly started to scratch behind her ear. “You have almost no teeth left, how’d you do it anyway?”

That was a fair question. When Martín and Mirko had found her wandering in the alley next to what was quickly becoming their favorite restaurant, the cat had been large but scrawny and had hissed at them with way too few teeth. There had been next to no discussion between the men as they had tried to coax the cat to come out of her hiding that first evening. They had returned with tuna and tins of cat food for three days before she had let them come close enough for Mirko to catch her with his jacket, and they had driven for almost an hour to find an animal clinic still open at night.

Now, seven months later, Nizza was undoubtedly the head of the household. Mirko had known it all along, Martín spoiled her rotten and couldn’t stay angry at her for anything, just like now.

"Oh, by the way, I've got something for you", Martín said. He didn’t sound at all as if he had just remembered and more like he had sat on the fact since getting home from grocery shopping ten minutes ago.

"Is it something you can bring to me, or do I have to try and stand up?", Mirko asked amused, gesturing to the cat with his free hand.

"I already have it here", Martín confessed and presented him with a book. "There you go, Ficciones by Borges. It’s not in mint condition exactly. But you can see it has been read and loved already."

Mirko took the book and held it up to breathe in the familiar scent only old, secondhand books had, of dust and pages and old printing ink. "Where’d you find it?" he asked.

They had tried to replace the books Mirko had lost when they had to flee from Tokio nine months ago, and it had been a slow and painstaking business that quickly grew into a hobby. It was difficult to get a hold on books in Spanish or Serbian in the small town they had settled in at the edge of Japan’s mainland, especially if you weren’t keen on ordering on the Internet. So they had visited every bookstore in the area and had even made a day trip out of it to get to secondhand stores, and although they had made good progress, this particular gem had been hard to come by.

"You won't believe it, I took a small detour down to the library, and there it was, in the sale section! I thought my eyes were playing a trick on me!" Martín’s eyes gleamed with glee at the surprise treat, and Mirko smiled at his enthusiasm. 

"That’s what I call luck."

Martín’s smile turned to a suggestive grin. "Yeah? So, you think I’m getting lucky tonight?"

Mirko’s belly laugh was too much for Nizza, who jumped down and raced away in the direction of the kitchen. 

"And it looks like we don’t even have to deal with her insistent mewing at the door, dearest."

__________________________

Mirko sat up straight. It was dark, and the air had the distinct feeling of the middle of the night. And the phone rang.

That was a bad sign.

Mirko swung his legs over the edge of the bed and groped for the phone in the dark.

He didn’t recognize the number and sighed. The ringing sounded even louder in the complete silence of the room and the sleeping world outside.

"Yes?" he said when he finally answered the phone.

"Helsinki, it's me. The Profesor", the Profesor said. That was bad.

There was rustling behind Mirko and a mew where Nizza was disturbed in her sleep, and he felt the covers shift behind him."Who’s it?" Martín slurred, still half-asleep.

"The Profesor."

"Shit", he replied. The bed creaked where Martín tried to find his way over to where Mirko said, night-vision still pretty bad.

"What a warm greeting", the Profesor’s voice drifted dryly through the room, having been put on speaker. "But there's no need for concern. I'm calling on Bogotá's orders."

"Is Nairobi okay?" Mirko asked, reaching behind him and pulling Martín to his side.

"Yes, she – didn’t you listen, I just told you she’s okay!" The Profesor said, with what sounded like a laugh.

Mirko frowned at the sound, only relaxing a fraction because a phone call in the night meant trouble, not laughter, and nothing made any sense. He reached over and turned on the bedside lamp, and the room was bathed in soft yellow hues.

"Well, what’s up with Bogotá then?" Martín asked, now fully awake.

"He was very insistent that I called you, no matter what time it is in Japan, to tell you, Helsinki, that at two pm Argentinian time, you became a godfather."

Mirko couldn’t process the words for a moment. Then Martín shook his shoulder and whooped loudly, and Helsinki laughed. "A godfather!"

"Yes!" The Profesor joined his laughter, and Mirko felt giddy with sudden joy. 

"Did you hear that, Martín?! A godfather!"

"I did hear", Martín said loudly and leaned in to give him a kiss. Mirko could feel him smile against his mouth.

"It's a healthy girl, Bogotá said, and they're going to call her Seúl. And Nairobi’s doing great as well, she actually wanted to call herself, but she was wiped out."

"A girl...", Mirko repeated. "Unbelievable."

"Yes, well." The Profesor cleared his throat. "Wait a second, Lisboa is calling me over."

They heard shuffling on the other side and then muffled voices, and Mirko pulled Martín into a tight hug. "That poor child will have a rough childhood with a name like that", Martín said, sounding as breathless as Mirko felt.

"Naaa, if she’s anything like her parents, no one will dare to say a word."

"Point taken."

The Profesor cleared his throat again, back on the line. He sounded even more delighted than before. "Lisboa just talked to Estocolmo to tell her the news, and it seems like you'll be getting a similar call in about three months. Estocolmo’s pregnant."

"What?!" Martín all but shouted. "How’d they manage to do that?"

"Well", Mirko started with a grin, but Mirko only slapped him lightly on the back. "Oh, everybody is a comedian these days. I just meant that its unexpected, that’s all."

"Is it?" Mirko asked. “When I think about it, it’s not really a surprise, they did a good job with Cincinnati.”

"Well, at least I haven’t actively thought about it," Martín said and rolled his eyes but settled down next to Mirko again, and rested his head against his shoulder.

"Do they know what whether they’re having a boy or a girl?" Mirko asked, remembering that the Profesor was still on the phone.

"A girl as well", he replied.

"The women on the team will soon outnumber us men, you mark my words", Martín said, sounding deeply fond.

“I had the old IT team from Pakistan secure your phone line with extra measures, Nairobi was apparently insistent that she wants to call you directly tomorrow."

"Thank you for calling us", Mirko said, and they said their goodbyes and hung up. They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, side by side, until Martín yawned and let himself fall flat against the bed again, pulling Mirko with him.

"Babies and godfathers and cats", Martín said. "That sounds awfully domestic. Did you ever think your life would turn out this way?"

"I didn’t think much about the future", Mirko replied, yawning as well. "And right now, there’s nowhere I want to be but in the present."

__________________________

“What”, Martín asked when he entered the kitchen, “are those?”

Mirko looked up from where he was reading in the recipe book and pushed his glasses back up his nose. “That’s a rhetorical question, right?”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were getting glasses?” Martín asked and came closer, and stole the glasses with nimble fingers from Mirko’s face. 

“I thought they’d arrive next week, I had planned to mention it until then.”

“My God”, Martín said as he put them on. His eyes looked bigger and gave him a sort of owlish look, and he gasped. “Mirko, I’m getting dizzy from these, how bad is your vision? Are you getting old?”

Mirko grinned and accepted them back from Martín, putting them on again. “That would be a bad sign for you, seeing as you’re actually older than me.”

“Woe me”, Martín said and bent down to refill Nizza’s feeding dish. Mirko tried to concentrate on the recipe again but soon became aware that Martín was leaning on the other side of the table and watched him intently.

“Do you like them?” Mirko asked.

“Of course I do, if they’re helping you see better”, he replied, but kept staring. “And they’re giving you a certain…Professor vibe. Like you’re teaching…” He paused and thought for a moment. “Actually, like you’re teaching engineering.”

“You’d have to know”, Mirko said. 

After a pause, Martín spoke up again: “But why didn’t you want to tell me until later? Your vision must have been bad for a while now since your glasses could be considered binoculars. How long has this been going on?”

Mirko hesitated. “Well, reading was getting a bit difficult, to be honest.”

“And you’ve been getting these headaches in the evening”, Martín remembered and frowned. 

“Yes, that as well. So I went to the doctor’s last week and to the optician right after that. It’s just…” It was true, he had dreaded to bring up the subject. “Your own eyesight has always been a sore subject, so I thought this would bring up bad memories.”

Martín scowled and leaned back in his chair. “I don’t have to be coddled, Mirko. It’s not like you have to risk your health to spare my feelings.”

“Martín, caring about you isn’t the same as thinking you can’t handle the truth. I just wanted to find the right moment to tell you.”

“Yeah, but that’s just it. You always tell me to share my feelings with you or whatever, that I don’t have to go through things alone, but that’s exactly what you’re doing. I want you to be honest with me.”

“It’s just glasses, Martín”, Mirko mumbled.

“Exactly”, Martín said and pushed back his chair to get up. “If you’re making a fuss just because of your glasses, how can I trust you to tell me if something’s really wrong?”

He turned around and left the kitchen. Mirko sighed and leaned back against his chair. That could have gone better. 

Hearing the quiet jingle of Nizza’s collar he turned to his right, and sure enough, found the cat staring up at him. But surely, the accusing look in her face was just her way of demanding more food and had nothing to do with the guilt that started to settle in Mirko’s stomach?

Shit. Maybe Martín was right. Martín had come a long way since their first meeting, where he had been bitter and prone to harsh outbursts, and it wasn’t fair to his progress to think that he couldn’t handle uncomfortable reminders and feelings. There was nothing wrong with helping him, Mirko thought, but Martín had to be in the whole picture and had to be able to decide for himself.

He stood up, carried Nizza the two steps to her dish and showed her that she wasn’t in danger of starving any time soon, and left the kitchen to find Martín.

He didn’t have to search for long. Martín sat on the patio with one of their Japanese course books, but he held it in his laps and stared off into their garden with a far-away look.

He came closer and sat down in the chair next to him. “I’m sorry.”

Martín blinked and turned to look at him, raising an eyebrow in a way that clearly said ‘Go on’.

“You’re right, if I want you to be honest with you, I have to do the same. I’ll tell you about these sorts of things from now on. It’s just….” He fell silent, grasping for the right words, but finding none. 

“You don’t have to be strong for the both of us all the time, Mirko”, Martín said quietly. “I love you, I just want to be with you. Through good times and bad times, right?”

“Right”, Mirko said. “I love you, too.”

Martín stood up and settled into Mirko’s lap, back against chest, and lowered his head against Mirko’s shoulder. “And for the record, the glasses really do look good on you. How did you pick them out, your taste is usually so terrible.” 

“You’re terrible”, Mirko replied but pressed a kiss against Martín’s hair. 

“You literally just said you loved me.”

“Well, I’ve been told I have terrible taste.”

_______

“Mirko? You still awake?”

“Hm.”

“If we really are getting old…”

“Hm?”

“There’s no one I’d rather grow old with.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've come this far, thank you very much for reading! I really liked writing these little slices of life in this chapter, mostly because there was (almost) no need for drama and mostly good things and a cat and just ~love~. I think the hardest part of this whole fic was settling on a name for their cat (which is why they're only granted one in the last chapter) and on Nairobi's and Bogotá'd kid. I don't think Nairobi would have gone with the name "Ibiza" if she didn't have the child with Sergio, hence "Seúl".  
> Because I'm one of the cool kids, you can find me on tumblr: https://coats-and-crowns.tumblr.com/


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